


Redolence

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Canon - Movie, F/M, Hermione Granger - character, Hunting, Obsession, Scabior - character, Scents & Smells, Stalking, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-23
Updated: 2010-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't stop thinking about her smell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redolence

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the director, really. There was subtext for _everyone_ in the movie. Movie canon only, minor movie spoilers. **Note:** Unrequited lust, thoughts of rape.
> 
> [French translation available.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/284432)

Bellatrix smells like crazy. Narcissa smells like fear. The entire Manor, cold stones and bleak rooms, smells of that damned snake. Scabior is happy to be out with the Snatchers, roaming the hills and vales in hunt. The air smells crisp, clean. The drowsy sweet hint of sap as the leaves change, the icy tang of snow as it crystallizes in the clouds, the deep smoky trace of ash and elm as people warm their hidden cottages.

He loves being outdoors, loves running through the forests and splashing through shallow rivers. Tracing the spoor of deer and hare. Following the game. Tracking the scent. He knows all the smells of nature.

This one is different. This one is warm and delicate, like light flecks of spice caught in the eddying currents over a cooktop. It dances under his chin, swirls in his nostrils as he breathes. He stops, turning his head to follow it. There, the trees. There, the snow. There, the rank sourness of his companions. Unwashed bodies. Sweat, dirt.

But there....

 _There_.

He stills. Breathes. He opens his mouth, just barely parts his lips, and draws in air, letting the scent become flavor as it drifts across his tongue. He swallows it, pulls it into his body. It doesn't belong here in the forest, in the trees and snow.

Perfume.

A woman. A woman has been here, a young one, an innocent one. The scent is too soft for a woman who's matured into confidence, too sweet for a woman who hides her insecurities behind sensuality and sex. This is the scent of a woman exploring the world, finding herself, looking for answers.

When they leave, he holds his long scarf to his nose, breathing deep. The scent clings to fabric and he holds it in his fist. The little sweetheart won't be the only one seeking in these woods.

\---

He thinks about her every time they go into the trees again. Every time he soaks his boots with snow, he thinks about her. Every time he breaks a handful of bark off a tree, he thinks about her. Every time they drag another struggling body across the rotting leaves, he looks down, breathes deep, and sighs. Her scent is fading from his scarf, disappearing from his nose. It makes him angry. It makes him careless.

It makes him almost forget the underlying scent of soft, unspoiled, innocent woman.

The group they catch smells of anxiety and fear, of raucous arguments and sleepless nights. The boys smell of hormones and wet dreams, their young bodies full of desires they don't understand and haven't learned to control. Scabior keeps a close eye on Greyback with these boys. They smell of want and lust, and Greyback goes mad over the scent of sex.

The girl smells like defiance. Her eyes glitter with intelligence; her chin is raised with determination. Scabior takes a desultory breath when he walks near her, assuming that any woman wandering the forests with these two would be with at least one, if not both of them, but the scent that floats into his nose is clean. He stops to examine her more closely, takes a handful of her hair and pulls it to his face.

He nearly growls at the odor that fills him. A sweet aroma, like honey and treacle, the rich and thick fragrance of the young woman he'd been seeking since he'd first scented her. She no longer has the smell of perfume on her skin, but it lingers in her pores and in her hair. He meets her eyes, and he smiles. This is the one. He smells her hair. She shivers, and her scent changes, making his heart race and his cock stiffen.

Penelope, she says her name is, Penelope Clearwater, and it's a lovely name. Far too beautiful for a little Mudblood, and he finds himself hoping that these are not the children they've been hunting. He hopes these boys are telling the truth, even as he examines the twisted dark spot on the forehead of the one with the swollen face. He hopes they are just incidental, forgettable, because then he can give the boys to Greyback, and he can have the girl.

\---

He paces a dusty corridor in Malfoy Manor, grumbling, swearing, kicking at ancient furniture and dragging the point of a blade across faded tapestries. Escaped. Run free, run off, run away. They were gone, and he could feel his chance slipping through his fingers, feel her scent fading from his memory again. He draws his scarf up and presses it to his nose, takes a deep breath with his eyes squeezed tight. Soft and innocent and unspoiled, still.

 _Still_.

He groans and falls against the wall, his forehead on the stones. One hand pushes against his groin and he strokes, thinking of how she would smell beneath him, her body coated in sweat and her thighs trembling wide. She's a fighter, and that only makes him harder. He knows she would struggle and scream, and her efforts would fill the room with her scent. She'd smell of musk and salt, of the ocean whipped into a frenzy by the storm.

He wants her. Wants her fresh and unsullied body, wants her sweet scent of innocence. Wants to take it, wants to claim it, claim her. Wants to leave his mark in her flesh and his scent on her skin. He rubs his cock and presses his scarf to his nose, breathing in the last of her, letting it fill his nostrils and float over his tongue. He scents her, tastes her, _needs_ her.

Footsteps echo in the corridor, slow and shuffling, and he looks up to see the boy, the Malfoy boy. Scabior waits, eyes lowered, until the little failure passes him, then leaps. He grabs Malfoy by the collar and shoves him into the wall, leans in close and whispers. "What's her name?"

He will have her, whatever it takes. Her scent, her body. His.


End file.
